Grape Harvest

Nietzsche is good with aphorisms, but he's better with thought.
I'm through alluding to something I'd rather not talk about.
Healthy overcoming drives the religion out of fear.
Apollo is cool and calm, but he is too easily satisfied.
He is clumsy in the subtle, grape harvest.
The ankles, tremulous feet pronged with fantasy,
advance the whole attribute of the truth.
The overman has become the mutable line and its eighths,
a figure in a triangle,
and the gesture of completion in a circle.
     I will briefly be fire
if he feels he can balance on such a thing.

It was some mixture of Thor and a raven that caused me to hit
those little brass keys. I knocked at my brother's door,
sat down at the typewriter, and have not gotten up since.
My chair is spinning like a clerk chasing down a dream.
The body of this narrative is indebted
to all the baggage handlers
who keep my anecdotes on the right flight.
Lost luggage is traveling close to two destinations.
This latest endeavor is by far my best yet.
Resilience to the emotions that form in congruence to their situation.
Mystery to the yen for life that always returns.

I have seen what anger can do at a low volume
turned onto the radio for years. 
Mountains have been moved, but it is always indirectly
when working with anger. We lay down our arms again and again
when we see its power.
I hesitate to lay down my arms, but so must you.
     Reasonableness will get one this far.
The robin is one of the custodians of nature
that belong neither to storage lockers nor staged rooms.
Nature has always been directed by the robin and his like.

We were blind, or rather it was incomprehensible to us
that beauty existed. Your clean floor is eternal.
We are janitors on the bum, dusting a footprint
that welcomes all thoughts.